Sonofabitch
by Lampito
Summary: Sam's never seen Dean so happy. His big brother is cheerful, he's sleeping well, he's willingly eating whatever's put in front of him, even if it looks suspiciously healthy.  There's just one little hitch with this happy state of affairs... COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**UPDATE NOTE:** This story is already complete, but I've changed the rating from 'M' down to 'T' as I did for my other story 'Can We Keep Him?', after having had a bit more of a look at what that rating involves on this site. In hindsight, it's really not terribly naughty, and doesn't contain anything that would make an average 13-year-old bat an eyelid. Put it down to newbiedom, and wanting to err on the side of caution.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, which is just as well, because I suspect they'd cost quite a lot to feed, to say nothing of hair product expenses.

RATING: T, for language (Hunters are just foul-mouthed creatures), Deans Rules About Having Sex and a rather naughty acronym.

SUMMARY: Sam's never seen Dean this happy: his big brother is cheerful, he's sleeping well, he's willingly eating whatever Sam puts in front of him - even if it looks suspiciously healthy. There's just one teensy weensy hitch with this happy state of affairs...

BLAME: This story is entirely the fault of the people who said such kind things about my first attempt at a fic - blame them. That's my line, and I'm sticking to it.

* * *

Chapter 1: Sam Remembers The Rules and Dean Shares Too Much Information.

"Well, this is new," mused Sam, as they returned to the Impala.

"Nothing new about women wanting to throw themselves at me, Sam," replied Dean, turning back to give Angeline Barrows a curtly professional FBI-On-The-Job nod as he got into the car. She lounged against the front door, looking at Dean with an expression that Sam had last seen three days ago – then, the expression had been lurking disreputably on Dean's face as he spotted a particularly delicious-looking piece of lemon meringue pie orphaned in the window of a cafe.

"That wasn't exactly what I was getting at," said Sam, watching a little bemusedly as Ms Barrows smiled at his brother in an uncomfortably predatory way, thinking idly that he'd be happier having a silver knife close to hand, "Although I was kinda surprised at your Serious Professional routine – since when do you refuse a woman's phone number?"

"Since she's on the rebound, Sam," sighed Dean, pulling the car away from the kerb, "Rule Number One: Never have sex with a woman who's rebounding like a squash ball off a cheerleader's ass."

"I thought Rule Number One was 'Never have sex with a woman who is married, engaged, de facto, or otherwise romantically attached to someone else', " queried Sam, loosening his tie.

"Okay, it's Rule Number Two, then…"

"No, Rule Number Two is: 'Never have sex with a woman who's drunk, unless she already agreed to it earlier when you were both sober'," corrected Sam.

"Right, yeah, that's important too, so it's…"

"Rule Number Three is: If there's any doubt about her age, ask to see ID – if she is of age, she'll be flattered'," recited Sam, his expression suggesting that he was reading from an internal autocue. "Rule Number Four: Never have sex with a woman and assume she's on the Pill – no glove, no love. Rule Number Five: Never have sex with a woman if she looks like she's been crying. Rule Number Six: Never have sex with a woman if there are kids in the house. Rule Number Seven: Always ask NICELY before you try to…"

"All right! Jesus, Sam," exclaimed Dean, "I had no idea you actually paid any attention to what I was trying to teach you about the niceties of Boy Meets Girl… the point is, you just don't take advantage of a woman on the rebound, okay? You just don't." He subsided into a glowering silence.

"Even if she's metaphorically waving a banner reading 'Come And Get It While It's Hot, Big Boy!'?"

"Especially if she's waving that banner," grumbled Dean.

Sam smiled fondly at his brother. "If I didn't know better, Dean, I'd think that beneath that roguish exterior beats the heart of a gentleman."

"I can play nice and still get laid plenty," said Dean, perhaps a trifle defensively, "That's just how awesome I am."

"Okay, okay, let's just agree that you're one of the best-behaved man-whores an unattached, sober, old-enough, contraceptive-using, childless, undistressed, possibly slightly kinky woman could ever hope to meet," conceded Sam, "What I was getting at, before I was distracted by a suspicion that Ms Barrows was going to jump on you with or without your informed consent, was that the 'I don't give a damn about him if anything I'm celebrating his disappearance' thing was, well, unexpected." He humphed. "Usually, when someone disappears, their nearest and dearest is worried, even if they had a huge argument beforehand; by the time we show up, when the police have drawn a blank, they're bordering on frantic. I don't call looking at you like she's a starving wolf and you're a prime rib steak exactly 'worried sick' behaviour."

"Yeah, you're right," agreed Dean, "But we've got seven more to go yet." He glanced over at his brother slyly. "At least I didn't get my shirt ruined, unlike somebody else…"

"It's not ruined, it'll wash out," mumbled Sam, his cheeks flushing and his expression indicating that the incident at the previous interview, in which their first interviewee had actually managed to get the drop on Sam and leave lipstick on his shirt, was NOT open for discussion at this time.

"And just how would you know about getting lipstick marks off shirts, Sammy?" asked Dean casually, smirking when his question was rewarded with a deepening of both scowl and blush.

"Basic chemistry," Sam growled, "It's a hydrophobic base, wax and oil, so treating it as a grease stain will get rid of it. Rub soap into the back of it, then heavy duty pre-wash spray, and warm water wash."

"Wow, I wish I'd consulted you months ago, Martha Stewart," remarked Dean, "Because I had this favorite pair of boxers, and they got Maybelline Very Berry on the waistband, and…"

"Dean! Too! Much! INFORMATION!" Sam yelped. Dean flashed his most winning 'Gotcha!' smile, and patted his brother's shoulder.

"I've taught you everything I know – well, everything you can bear to hear, anyway – and I trust you to be a big boy. You need to get laid, Sam." Sam sighed, and put his head in his hands. Dean's expression softened. "You okay, bro?"

"I'm fine. Just a headache," replied Sam.

"Well, not tonight, then, although maybe if you did go and get laid, you could give your upstairs brain the vacation it so desperately needs, and…"

Sam gave Dean a shot of Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk). "Well, one of us is going to have to think with the upstairs brain – we need to figure out what we're dealing with on this Hunt. Any time you feel like joining the adults at the big table, just say so."

Dean subsided. "Okay, okay, sorry, upstairs brain gets to drive tonight." His stomach rumbled. "How does dinner sound? I'm buying."

Sam sighed, closing his eyes. "Food sounds good."

"Right. We get out of the monkey suits, you do you pre-wash routine, and we go get dinner." Dean paused. "Just dinner, you understand, no strings attached, I don't expect you to sleep with me afterwards…"

"Jerk."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Dean Comforts a Dismembered Car, and Sam's Eyes Cross

It had seemed like a straightforward problem when Sam had connected a series of disappearances from a town just out of Sterling, Colorado. Over a period of not quite three months, nine men had just vanished. Four left behind cars – two of them crashed – with a set of clothes inside, as if the driver had just evaporated in transit. One left a pile of clothes and a pair of shoes on a river bank. Four left for work and just never showed up. The local police were treating the disappearances as unconnected: intentional disappearances, a drowning, and foul play (probable motive of robbery) respectively. Years of tracking down fuglies told the Winchesters' instincts otherwise.

They'd headed for Colorado, checked into a crappy motel, and prepared to go through the usual routine: determine the connection between the disappearances, interview any likely witnesses to try to work out the disappeared persons' last movements, and work out what they were up against.

Sam did what Dean referred to as his Laptop Dancing, and quickly established that the men had all been partnered in marriages, engagements or long-term relationships. So they'd set out in FBI guise, Sam prepared to be the engaging, compassionate one while Dean, the Serious Professional, would snoop around as necessary.

That went out the window about sixty seconds into their first interview.

Three days in FBI guise established two things:

Firstly: all the disappeared men had betrayed, cheated on, jilted and left their partners with what could only be described as particularly callous selfishness. The wronged party had been left emotionally (and in some cases financially) devastated, barely able to function, in the aftermath when the betrayal had come to light.

Secondly: the ditched partners – seven women and two men – could not give a damn that their exes had apparently vanished off the face of the Earth, and none of them were in the least bit interested in helping the FBI track down the missing men.

Some of them still hadn't quite finished with the process of vandalising, destroying or cutting into teensy weensy little pieces the ex's belongings, but all of them seemed to be in remarkably good spirits, considering they'd had their hearts broken and their worlds overturned; they were getting on with their lives cheerfully, if not downright enthusiastically.

The ladies, in particular, seemed quite keen about the whole 'get back on the horse' philosophy.

Betrayed Wife #1 had just opened a bottle of something bubbly quite early in the afternoon, and seemed breezily disappointed that FBI agents were not allowed to drink on the job. She had been only too willing to recount, in grisly detail that made even Dean squirm, the way she had caught her husband _in flagrante delicto_ – "With the emphasis on 'lick', that low-down worm, he didn't bat an eyelid". She suggested that they look in the low-down worm's journal and diary for clues to his possible whereabouts, but all that had achieved was to separate Sam from Dean, and that's when she'd made her move: Dean had heard the stifled shriek, and returned from the study to find Sam cowering against the wall, the lipstick stain on his collar flaming red, and his face even redder. That had necessitated a trip back to the motel for Sam to change his shirt.

Angeline Barrows (aka the She-Wolf, as Sam had taken to thinking of her) had been Betrayed Wife #2. When they knocked on her door, she had been planning a Tupperware party. However, she had lost all interest in Modular Mates and Back 2 Basics Baking Essentials the moment Dean had strayed into her lair; she'd airily described the way the 'scumbag stinking rat' had run off with not one but two PAs from his company, and further added that she had no interest in his current whereabouts or eventual fate and that if she ever saw him again she would use her Happy Chopper to slice and dice his genitals quickly and conveniently with a minimum of fuss and easy clean-up. Dean got his backside slapped.

After that, Dumped Fiancée #1 was in the process of packing. "I don't know, and I don't care where that two-timing lying pig went. I'm going on vacation! After I sold my engagement ring, and the dress, and got back some of the deposit on the reception venue, well, I was amazed at how much money there was! I'm going with a girlfriend – we've been taking French classes! I hate my passport, though, ugh! Passport photos are so ugly! Oh God, what if some cute French guy in Customs wants to see my passport photo? I'll die!" The happy squeal on the last sentence suggested that it was a risk she was prepared to take. "Cette photo, je la deteste! Je ressemble a un… oh, I wonder what's French for 'hooker'?"

"That would be 'La putain'," provided Sam, "But it's not a nice word, stick with "I hate this photo..." There had been more giggling. Then Sam got his backside slapped.

Dean had found their next visit particularly distressing: Betrayed Wife #3, who had taken up post-modern sculpture and discovered a fulfilling new career, was creating the centrepiece for her upcoming exhibition by turning her disappeared husband's 1964 Plymouth Fury into "…a concept piece, embodying the senseless emotional vandalism perpetrated by man's selfishness and testosterone-soaked id. I call it 'The Cockroach's Lust Is Blind'."

"I call it criminal insanity," muttered Dean to himself, running a hand over what had clearly been a well-maintained car in excellent condition. At least, until the abandoned wife had got at it with the acetylene torch and the sledgehammer. "Oh, sweetie, what has she done to you?" he'd crooned sadly to the post-modern concept piece. "I'm so sorry, if I'd known I'd have gotten here earlier, I am so sorry…"

Sam put a comforting brotherly hand on his shoulder and, barely stifling laughter, said gently, "It's okay, bro, we do what we can, but you know we can't save 'em all…" He'd stopped laughing when he'd had his backside slapped again.

Ditched Boyfriend #1 seemed remarkably upbeat, given that his partner of a decade and a civil ceremony had cleaned out the joint account, then run off with a younger man: "You want to talk about his possible whereabouts? Go ask someone who cares. The disgusting old goat can fornicate himself to death, for all I care. Meanwhile, I've found something much more fun to throw a leg over…" he had grinned conspiratorially as he ushered them into the garage. Pride of place went to what Sam recognized – just – as a motorcycle frame, but Dean went all motorhead on him. "Is that an FZ?" he asked, peering at the plate.

"Sure is," beamed Ditched Boyfriend #1, "1985 N-model. Eddie Lawson won the Superbike championship on one of these. She's all beat up to hell, but structurally sound. I'm rebuilding her from the ground up." So they'd been stuck there for an extra half an hour, while Dean and DB#1 had traded strange incantations about 'rake angles' ("You gonna fit a damper?" "Not sure yet; I might, given that 16-inch front rim." "Full lock tank-slap is bad mojo, man, I'm just sayin'.") and 'delta-box frames' and 're-jetting' ("Some idiot put a 4-into-1 onto it from the collector, but left the stock jets in; I was thinking a Yoshi system, from the headers back…" "Dude, this thing will sound so horny…"). Mercifully, there was no slapping - tank or backside - this time.

Betrayed Wife #5, their last interview, had been plain scary. Mrs Genevieve Harrington-Hughes was a matronly lady in the grande dame tradition. A butler showed them in, and she received them in the tastefully and extremely expensively furnished sitting room of a very grand house. She sat with ponderous dignity, in twin-set and pearls - Sam was sure that he'd seen her carved on the prow of an 19th century tea clipper in a text-book once – while a maid poured coffee. For a lady whose trust funds had been severely depleted by her husband when he ran off with a stockbroking firm secretary – "The wretched little gold-digging chippie, she was younger than our daughters!" – she seemed remarkably composed. "I do not know, and I do not care, what has become of the miserable, ill-mannered stoat" she laughed merrily, "And if I never see him again, Agent Hammett, it will be too soon."

"Well, thank you for your help," said Dean, sensing that they were not going to get any information out of her and proffering a card, "If you think of anything that you believe could help, please do call."

As the butler arrived to show them out, she laughed again, a truly carefree sound. "I don't think you quite understand," she smiled serenely, speaking in a cheerful tone, "I don't care where that pussy-struck little rodent is - if I ever see him again, I will tear his balls of with my teeth, _with my teeth_, Agent Ulrich, and shove them down his throat until they pop out his ass, and as for his little fuck-buddy, I will stick a pig's leg so far up her cooze her teeth will fucking rattle… ah, here's Henderson, he will show you out. Do drive carefully, gentlemen."

She didn't do any backside slapping, for which they were both eternally grateful, although the way her eyes had kept straying to the pool boy at work beyond the full length windows made both Winchesters shudder.

"Dear God," muttered Dean back in the safety of the Impala, "The things you see when you don't have any silver ammo loaded…"

Sam sat in shotgun, his eyes and his legs involuntarily crossing. "Poor Juan," he said softly, "Poor Juan. Did you see the way she looked at him? I feel…. dirty." He shivered.

"She was the last one…" said Dean.

"…Thank God, I'm over the whole ass-slapping thing…" muttered Sam grumpily.

"…So, can we go eat now?"

"Yeah, sounds like a plan," said Sam, "Right after we get out of the monkey suits." An image of Mrs Harrington-Hughes ogling her pool boy popped unwanted into his head, and he shuddered again. "And I take a shower."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Dean Interprets Greer, Sam Uses His Upstairs Brain

One after another, all their interviews had played out like that: don't know, don't care, too busy enjoying my life. (Final score: 3 backside slaps each, with Sam winning by a lipstick stain in extra time.)

"So," mused Sam over dinner, "We have nine men disappeared, each having done some serious betrayal, and now their partners have no interest at all in what might've happened to them."

"Yeah," said Dean around a mouthful of hamburger, "Don't know, don't care where that rat/pig/goat/rodent/piranha/worm/insert-other-derogatory-animal-reference-of-your-choice went, getting on with my own life and enjoying it thank you very much, hurrah." He picked up several French fries, and pushed them around in the mustard on his plate. "No matter how weird or suspicious the circumstances may be. What does that say to you?"

"Revenge curse, revenge spell," mused Sam, pulling a face at Dean's eating. "Somebody dealing out revenge for those who've been betrayed in love? Speaking of pigs…" he passed a handful of paper napkins over to Dean, who was looking helplessly at the grease and mustard all over his hands.

"A witch. This has witch written all over it," agreed Dean, wiping at his hands as he pulled a face, "A witch who hates men. A militant feminist witch. A hairy-legged, overall-wearing, Gloria Gaynor lip-synching, emasculating witch. God, I hate witches..."

"A witch who hates cheating men," corrected Sam, "Enough to deal out revenge for their victims, and want to make them happy again. If these people have had a witch curse their partners, they're not going to tell anybody about it, least of all the FBI." He paused. "The question is, where do we start looking?"

"We look for the woman who looks like Germaine Greer with a pointy hat on? We walk around town looking for someone with a broomstick in one hand and a copy of 'The Female Eunuch' in the other?" Dean asked with a shrug. "How did these annoyingly cheerful dumpees find her?"

"That's a good question," said Sam, "So: if I was a ditchee who was falling apart because my man had broken my heart, my finances and my life, where would I look for help?" He looked sideways at Dean. "Have you read 'The Female Eunuch'?"

"Haven't you?" countered his brother.

"Well, yeah, it's just not the sort of thing I'd figure was high on your reading list. Prof Greer isn't exactly busty, she's not Asian, and she's certainly not what you'd call a beauty." Sam looked at him incredulously. "When the hell did you read it?"

"You were at Stanford. I was laid up with busted ribs and some ligament damage in one knee, the TV didn't work, and that's all that was in the crappy room," replied Dean. "It was that, the Gideon Bible, or AA's Big Book – it was the least depressing out of the three." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "It has certain aspects to it that might qualify it as a polemic, but I think she made a fair point about the repression of women's sexuality by the traditional Western model nuclear family..."

"I don't believe it," said Sam, staring in disbelief at his big brother, "I don't believe what I'm hearing."

"…Women becoming suspicious of their own libidos – it was only shocking because she said it out loud…"

"Do I have to stab you with a silver knife? Who are you, and what have you done with Dean?"

"…You have to look at it in the context of when it was written," continued Dean, leaning back and gesturing expansively with a French fry, "There was all sorts of societal upheaval going on - laws and long-held beliefs and norms being questioned and challenged, and publicly protested…"

"A damned shapeshifter, that's what you are!" accused Sam.

Dean continued to hold forth, "…Civil rights movements, black rights, women's rights – the impact of the contraceptive pill alone, overturning centuries of the stigma associated with pregnancy outside of marriage – and the Vietnam War was going on…"

"A djinn," decided Sam, "I've been abducted by a djinn, that's it, I just have to hold on until my big brother can rescue me." He bounced up and down in his seat. "Help help help! Save me, Dean, save me! I'm in here, being feminized at by your doppelganger!"

"You should've paid attention in Sociology," Dean chided him, "You might get laid more often. Chicks love it when you trot that stuff out – there was this poltergeist in Cambridge, and there were these Radcliffe post-grads, and they were not the least bit suspicious of their libidos …"

Sam let his head fall into his hands. "My brother, the Sensitive New Age Guy," he muttered.

"Actually," smirked Dean, "One of those post-grads called me a Caring, Understanding Noughties Type…"

"DEAN!" Sam barked at him; "Let's get back to the problem of how we find the emasculating man-hating witch who doesn't look at all like Germaine Greer, okay?" Dean nodded, and gave his hands a final wipe on his jeans.

Sam rolled his eyes, and shoved a copy of the local newspaper at him. "Dean, wipe your hands on something besides your clothes, you're going to stink up the car with greasy burger for the next three days…" his voice petered out and he was suddenly still, staring at the paper. "It can't be that simple," he said to himself.

"What?" Dean watched bemusedly as Sam started flicking through the paper from the back.

"They'll be here, somewhere," he muttered, scanning the pages. "Aha! Classifieds! This is what we're looking for," he said, looking up and down the columns of tiny text, "Right, Man Seeks Woman, Woman Seeks Man, Seeks Same…"

"Sammy, you got a kink I don't know about?" leered Dean. Sam ignored him, and kept searching.

"Here. Under 'Personal Development'… This. 'New Age/Spiritual Guidance'." Sam took a pen from his pocket. "There's three here: 'Wings and Wishes – Spells for Health, Happiness and Prosperity.' 'The Cauldron – For All Your Wicca Needs'. Aaaaaand… oh. Listen to this one. 'Crossed In Love? Broken Heart? Find Healing and Happiness, with Madame Circe'."

Dean's face scrunched up in thought. "Circe, as in the sorceress Circe?"

"Who turned men who'd offended her into animals." Sam looked up at Dean. " 'Insert derogatory animal reference of your choice here'… I think we may have ourselves a candidate for the position of man-hating, ditchee-avenging witch".

"Go Sammy and his upstairs brain!" beamed Dean. "So, we need to find out if Madame Circe is actually dishing out revenge, or just another crazy cat lady with a lot of bangles and too much mascara. We need to do a recon." He frowned, considering the best approach.

Sam looked at his brother. "Um, I have an idea about that," he said slowly, "But you might not like it."

"I'm all ears, Sam."

Sam told Dean his idea.

"You're right," frowned Dean, "I don't like it."

"Can you think of anything better?" asked Sam.

"No," sighed Dean, "All right, we roll with it."

"Okay," said Sam. "The only thing we have to decide is who you get to be: Supportive Friend, or Protective Big Brother?"

"Big Brother, I'll do Protective Big Brother," said Dean quickly, "Really Protective Big Brother. Angry, Ludicrously Over-Protective And Above All Heterosexual Big Brother."

"At least you don't have to act at all to do that convincingly." mumbled Sam.

"I heard that," said Dean. "Now, I'm ready for dessert. All that feminism really takes it out of a guy – go get me pie, bitch."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Sam Cries For His Hairdryer and Dean Minds His Language

Madame Circe studied the two young men who had entered her poky little shop.

She kept it deliberately poky and cluttered with strange items that probably looked occult to the uninitiate – and in truth, she was extremely fond of Neville the stuffed raven, he was practically her mascot. The various small charms and spells she usually worked she could do with nothing much except her book, some chalk, and very ordinary and unexciting-looking herbs and trinkets, but people expected a certain ambiance when they came to consult a _magissa_.

She had heard her current customers before she'd seen them: the sound of a large, thumping engine parking outside was difficult to miss. Madame did not approve of large, thumping engines, or the large thumping cars they powered, and she certainly did not approve of many of the large, thumping men who drove them. In her experience, large, thumping men who drove large, thumping cars with large, thumping engines were Compensating For Something. She had eyed a small jar of extremely boring looking dried petunia petals, and wondered idly whether she should put a hex on the car on general principles – making the horn inexplicably play Mary Had A Little Lamb was always amusing – or just lay a charm on the driver to make him think his black monster had suddenly turned pink. (Actually turning the car pink would be easier than making one human just believe it was, but she had her pride).

And looking at the older man, she was tempted; he had 'womanizer' practically written across his face in large, leering neon letters…

"Come in, come in!" she greeted them warmly, "Come in, my darlings, and tell me what Madame can do for you today." The older one introduced himself as Dean, and his brother as Sam. His younger brother, who, despite his considerable height, managed to give the impression that he was peeking shyly up at her through his hair. Madame took his arm gently, and ushered them to seats at her table. "Tell me now, my darling, why such a handsome boy looks so sad."

Sam sat staring at his hands, fidgeting with a mangled tissue. "I don't know," he said in a small voice, "I don't know what happened. We were good, I thought he was happy… we were happy… and then, and then…" he broke off and sniffed.

Dean handed him a fresh tissue. "Madame Circe," he said, in a controlled voice with an undertone of venom, "I can tell you exactly what happened. My brother has been strung along, used, and dumped by the most callous, vicious, selfish asshole…" Sam started to sniffle again.

"_Ndropi sou_!" she burst out, "Language, young man, language!" Dean immediately looked so contrite, she had to laugh. "Humor a prudish old _yaya_, Dean," she admonished him gently, "There is no need for language! Although I can see, you are simply concerned for your brother's welfare."

"I am, Madame, I am," sighed Dean, his green eyes unhappy. "I just get so angry at the way that basta…"

"Dee! Potty mouth!" interrupted Sam in a wavering exasperated voice.

"…Sorry, that… horrible man treated my baby brother, who doesn't have a mean bone in his body." Sam honked into his tissue. Dean handed him another one.

"Sam," said Madame gently, "Can you tell me what has happened?"

Sam bit his lip and took a deep shuddering breath. "It was our second anniversary," he said shakily, "And Kenneth and I were planning a trip away. There was this antique fair he wanted to go to in Vermont, and, and, I thought it would be good for him, he'd been working so hard, staying back late, working weekends… at least that's what he told me he was doing…" his eyes brimmed, but he rallied magnificently. "I s-saved up to get him this adorable little George II reproduction wine table he'd admired, the fretwork was amazing, for a b-birthday present, s-so, I didn't tell him where I was going when I went to buy it, I wanted it to be a surprise… and, and, when I got back, he was home, and he was, he was…" the tears spilled over. "I-in our bed! They were in our bed! And I'd just vacuumed the rug and changed the sheets that morniiiiiiiiiing!" The last word turned into an anguished howl. Dean handed him another tissue.

Madame patted his hand (the one that wasn't clutching a handful of soggy tissues to his nose). "Oh, you poor boy," she murmured, "Your significant other, he broke your heart, _nai_?"

"Six months!" wailed Sam, "Six months he'd been going behind my back! With his PA! And his EO! And the pooooool booooooy…." His bottom lip wobbled in earnest, and Dean put a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder. "H-he told me that I'd make somebody a w-wonderful housekeeper, but he really couldn't be serious with somebody who was as, as, as, _vanilla_ as meeeee!" The sobbing restarted in earnest. Dean patted him on the back.

"You see?" he said in a deadly tone, "You see what that sonofabit…"

"Dee!"

"…Sorry, that… horrible man has done? He threw Sam out! He chewed him up, and spat him out!" He produced another tissue from the seemingly endless supply and handed it to Sam. "I'll kill him for what he's done," Dean growled, "I'll kill him! I'm gonna tear of his head, stuff it up his ass, and shit down his neck! I'm gonna rip his balls off and use them for ping-pong practice! I'm gonna…"

"Dean, language!" cried Madame.

"Nooooo, Dee, you can't!" said Sam desperately, "You'll go to jail!"

"I don't care, Sammy, it would be worth it! Look at you! You've been a wreck for six weeks now!"

"Dee-Dee, no!" Sam wailed, "What will I do if you go to jail?" He clutched at his big brother. Dean turned miserable eyes to Madame.

"I just want him to be happy," he said, raising his voice slightly to make himself heard over Sam's sobs, "He deserves to be happy. It's always been so hard for Sam, being… different. Even growing up, the kids were so mean. At kindergarten, they hid his hairbrushes in the sandpit…"

"They hid my hairbrushes!" snuffled Sam.

At Elementary School, they stole his Barbies…"

"They stole my Barbies!" moaned Sam miserably.

"… And they pulled Malibu Barbie's head off in front of him!"

"They pulled her head right off!" squeaked Sam.

"… And as for what they did to Ken, well, if he was anatomically incorrect before they started…"

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" went Sam.

"…At summer camp, they threw his hair dryer into the lake…"

"While I was still using it!" howled Sam.

"In Junior High, well, I won't tell you what they did with his My Little Ponies…"

"Poor Dobbiiiiiiin!" keened Sam, clutching his tissue. His brother handed him another.

"And in Senior High, they took his Judy Garland albums – he had some of them on vinyl, for God's sake, they were irreplaceable! – and they smashed – them – all!"

Sam suddenly went still, with a strange look on his face, and made a strangled gurgling sound. Madame Circe stared in horror: the poor boy was clearly experiencing some terrible flashback to the indescribable trauma of his school years.

Dean had his brotherly outrage under control, but his voice was angry, she-bear-sees-somebody-between-herself-and-her-cub angry.

"That… horrible man doesn't deserve to live, after what he's done," he said quietly, ominously. I won't get caught, Sammy, I'll hide the body where they'll never find it…"

"Nooooooooo!" howled Sam, twisting his tissues. Dean handed him a fresh one. "I don't want him dead, Dee-Dee, I just want… I just…"

"What do you want, my darling?" asked Madame quietly. Sam looked at her with a kicked puppy expression, and spoke in a soft, broken voice.

"I just… I just want him to understand what he's done. I want him to understand that he's been a complete, complete, a complete… WEASEL! He's a lying, cheating, no-good weasel! Kenneth, you are an absolute WEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL!" The hazel eyes brimmed over again, and he sobbed into his brother's shoulder.

"Ah, my poor boy," said Madame gently, taking Sam's hand – the one without the tissues, again – in both of hers, "Your brother doesn't understand, does he? You just want him to know. Would you feel better if this Kenneth could be made to understand what a weasel he has been?"

Sam nodded, hiccuping into silence.

"Whatever it costs, whatever it takes," muttered Dean, "Can you help him, Madame?"

Madame smiled, patting Sam's hand. "This, I can help you with. You come back tonight, young Sam, and bring something that belonged to Kenneth the weasel, can you do that?" Sam nodded again. "Good, good, you do that, and I will work a teeny little spell, and I will not take payment until I see a smile on that handsome face." Sam sniffed, gave her a brave little wobbly smile. "_Nai_, that's better, I want to see dimples before midnight, my darling!" He smiled again, almost producing the required facial features.

"Thank you so much, Madame," said Dean sincerely, shaking her hand and giving her a killer smile that made her wonder if he might end up on the receiving end of one of her workings one day, "This has been so hard on Sam. We're truly grateful for any help you can offer." Even Sam seemed to have perked up a little, thanking her politely and arranging to return in the evening. They left her shop, Sam leaving a sad trail of used tissues in his wake.

When they had left, she sighed, and glared at the tissues until they got off the floor and jumped into the small wastebasket to escape her affronted gaze. Poky and cluttered was one thing, but plain untidy was completely unacceptable.

She headed to the back room, and began to set up her altar – this would take more power than her day-to-day spells and charms, but it was a familiar ritual, and she liked to be prepared well in advance. She glanced thoughtfully at the jar of petunia petals again. Maybe she could do something subtle about Dean's potty mouth while she was at it. She was pretty sure Sam would appreciate that.

* * *

TBC - is there actually any spell at all in the Supernatural verse that is powerful enough to do anything about Dean's potty mouth?


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you to the reviewers who have said such kind things to the newbie *sniff* - the problem with reviews, of course, is that they just encourage further silliness...

* * *

Ch 5 Sam Outs Kenneth and Dean Does Not Mind His Language

"Aaaaaand the Academy Award for Most Appallingly Melodramatic And Painfully Overacted Portrayal Of A Dumped Gay Man goes to…" Dean started as the Impala pulled away from the kerb, "Really, Sam, an antique fair? "

"Ha! You can talk!" shot back Sam, fishing yet another tissue from his pocket, "Gah, these things are breeding! Where did hairbrushes come from? Hairbrushes, _plural_? When I was in _kindergarten_?"

"Amazing fretwork?"

"Barbies? My Little Pony? Have you ever actually met a gay person, Dean?"

Yeah, Dumped Boyfriends #1 and #2, remember? He's going to need a damper on that FZ..."

"Besides them, jerk."

"Yeah, but they weren't nearly as gay as you. The pool boy, Sam, the _pool boy_?"

"Judy Garland albums?" Sam put his head in his hands. "I don't believe we actually pulled that off."

"Well, now we just gotta find something that belonged to Kenneth… where the hell did that name come from?" Sam lapsed into a surly silence. "Sam?" Scowl, frown, more silence. "Sam, who's Kenneth?" wheedled Dean.

"Trldl," mumbled Sam.

"And once more for the viewers at home, with some vowels this time?"

"A Troll Doll," said Sam, glaring at his brother as if daring him to make any derogatory comments, "He was my exam mascot." Scowl. Silence. Humph. "He had pink hair."

"You know, that's kind of a relief," said Dean, "Because you seem to have pool boys on the brain, and if you'd said…"

"Dean, shut up," snapped Sam. "We have to get something for me to take – it'd better be brand new, just so she can't work any mojo with it."

"Okay," said Dean, "But where we're supposed to find a George II reproduction wine table at such short notice is beyond me…"

"Dean, knock it off."

"…Although maybe if you're prepared to forego the intricate fretwork…"

"Dean, I said…"

"…They see you trollin', they hatin'…"

"DEAN! Shut! Up!"

...oOoOo...

After dark, Sam returned to Madame Circe's small shop. She greeted him at the door, and showed him through to the small back room, where her altar was set up, and several candles were burning. One look was enough to let Sam know that this was the real deal, and she was getting ready to work a seriously powerful spell.

"Did you bring something that belonged to that dreadful man who has broken this handsome boy's heart?" asked Madame sympathetically. Sam handed over a small mirror.

"This was his nose hair trimming mirror," he said mournfully, "One of his most precious possessions. He threw it at me when he… he…" his eyes started to fill and his bottom lip wobbled perilously. He fished a tissue out of a pocket – as he did so, he hit a button on his cell phone.

"We will put a stop to this weasel, young man," Madame said soothingly, "And I will get my smile, _nai_?" Sam sniffed, and ventured a resolute little smile. Madame patted his arm, took the mirror, and placed it on the altar. Picking up an intricately carved knife in one hand and what could only be her grimoire in the other, she began to recite in a mixture of what Sam recognised as alternating Latin and Greek phrases. She was hardly consulting the book at all – damn, he thought, she was one powerful witch…

"Okay, that's enough mumbo jumbo for now, Madam Mim," came the reassuring voice of his brother. Madame Circe stopped mid-chant; Dean had broken in through the back door, and stood with his gun trained on her.

Her eyes narrowed. "Hunter!" she hissed at him, immediately changing the chant to something malevolent and guttural, pointing the knife at him. Sam stepped in and plucked it from her hand.

"No, I really don't think so," he said. She whirled to face him, expression twisted into anger. "You are not going to turn any more men into animals, Madame. It stops here."

"They deserved it!" She snarled at him, hands hooking into claws, "Every one of them! A selfish pig! A lying rat! A miserable insect!"

"That's not for you to decide!" snapped Dean. With his free hand, he overturned her altar. She let out a shriek of outrage, and gibbered something rapidly in a high voice.

The tissues from Sam's previous visit leaped out of the wastebasket, and headed straight for Dean, a swarm of little fluffy white comets, smacking into him at high speed.

"Ow!" yelped Dean in surprise. Either Sam's snot had dried to the hardness of concrete, or these were witchcraft-enhanced tissue missiles. "Ow! OW! SHIT!"

"Language!" shrieked Madame, waving a hand. The tissues bounced off Dean, orbiting him briefly before crashing into him again.

"Ow! Hey, OW! Aaaargh! Shit!" He swatted ineffectively at them as the intercontinental ballistic used tissues continued to bombard him, rebounding then heading in for another impact. "OW! FUCK! Sammy! Gank the bitch! I'm getting cratered here!" He staggered backwards like a model of an atom in which the electrons have finally had enough of that stupid nucleus holding them prisoner, and decided to attack it - and they wouldn't stop until they had achieved nuclear fission.

"Language, you disgusting boy!" Madame yelled again, gesturing once more, urging the tissues to ever-more painful bombardment.

Sam lunged for Madame Circe, aiming for her book – she darted out of the way, and gestured at him.

A stuffed raven suddenly flew through the air at high speed and whacked into him, sending him to the floor and making him drop the knife.

"Sam? Sam! OW!" Swatting at the kamikaze tissues divebombing him, Dean made for his brother, gun drawn. "Sammy, you okay? Ow! Ow! Fuck! OW! SONOFABITCH!"

"You foul-mouthed creature!" shrieked Madame Circe, her eyes blazing with anger. "Sonofabitch, is it? Yes, Sonofabitch it shall be! Sonofabitch! _SONOFABITCH_!" She raised a hand and gabbled something in Greek. A small pulsing orb of pale light appeared in her hand, and she threw it at Dean.

"DEAN!" shouted Sam, scrabbling to his feet and crash-tackling his brother to the floor – the glob of light struck a glancing blow off Dean's side, and disappeared into the shadows.

"Dean, are you okay?" asked Sam. He didn't have time to wait for an answer – he heard feet running at him, and turned to see Madame with her carved knife bearing down on him. He scrabbled for his own gun, and put several shots into her. The ballistic tissues fell to the floor, where a tall candelabrum had been knocked down.

"Dean, are you okay?" repeated Sam, helping his brother sit up. Dean looked up at him expectantly.

"Arf?" he said. Sam rolled his eyes, pulling his brother to his feet.

"Come on," he said, "Ding dong, the witch is dead, and it looks like this place is going to torch itself." He gestured to the fallen candelabrum, which had set the cloth from the altar alight. "With all the crap in here, this place'll go up like a bonfire." As they left through the back door, he scooped up Madame's book – Bobby would be interested in it, and it might make a useful addition to the old Hunter's reference collection.

In the cool evening air in the alley behind the witch's shop, he turned back to his brother. "Let's put some distance between us and here. Where did you park?"

Dean just stood and looked at him, smiling widely.

Great, thought Sam, just what I need, concussed Dean. What fun. Dean made no protest or movement as Sam fished into his jacket pocket for the keys.

"Look, we'll head for Bobby's, okay, and hang out there for a few days, until you start speaking English again, then…"

"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," said Dean, his eyes suddenly narrowing and his nostrils flaring. There was a flicker of movement further up the alley. Sam drew his gun, but Dean just stood staring, sniffing, his top lip curling…

A scrawny cat strolled out from behind a dumpster.

"Arf!" shouted Dean, as he began running at it. The cat saw Dean coming and took off, heading up the alley at high speed, where it disappeared into a narrow gap in the brickwork. Sam's eyes bugged in confusion.

"Dean? What the hell are you doing?" He said, half to himself. "Dean! Come back here!" He called after his brother.

Dean turned around and loped back to Sam, the happy grin still on his face.

"Dean, it was a damned cat, that's all? What's gotten into you?" asked Sam.

"Arf," said Dean, grinning and looking expectantly at Sam. A horrible suspicion started to form in Sam's mind. What was the last thing the witch had said?

Fuck.

_Sonofabitch it shall be…_

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Dean," began Sam carefully, "I think we might have a bit of a problem here."

Dean cocked his head sideways and continued to stare at Sam with an adoring expression. "Arf."

Oh, fucking fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Sam sighed, and pulled out his phone, hitting speed dial. "Bobby? Yeah, it's me. Is it okay if Dean and I swing by your place for a bit? I think we have a problem."

* * *

_Authors Note_: Just in case I've outraged any bike purists out there, I know the N-model FZ750 wasn't fitted with a steering damper, but I think it should have been - Dean's right, a full lock tank-slapper at around 130 kph (which I think is about 80MPH) is NO fun whatsoever, and I have the muscle damage to prove it, although I'm not going to show anybody my scars because that would involve taking my shirt off and Nice Girls don't do That Sort Of Thing (just ask Madame). Okay. Just so we're clear on that. Onward to the next chapter: I'll need another cup of tea, and some chocolate...


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Dean Enjoys A Ride In The Car And Sam Makes Oatmeal

"You idjits have really gone and done it this time," sighed Bobby, poring over the delicate old book Sam had given him. "A transformation spell takes a powerful practitioner – you're lucky you didn't both get your heads blown clean off."

Sam slumped at the table with his head in his hands. "What happened, Bobby?" he asked with a yawn, looking at Dean, who was sprawled bonelessly on the sofa, sound asleep and snoring contentedly, arms and legs twitching sporadically.

"From what you told me, I'd say she tweaked it, then aimed it at your brother – when you tackled him, that must've deflected it. The spell didn't take full effect, so the transformation wasn't completed. Which would explain why…"

"...Why Dean now thinks he's a dog," sighed Sam.

"Not exactly - he's not a human who thinks he's a dog, Sam. He_ is_ a dog. The son of a bitch, literally. In a human body." Bobby looked up from the book. "Boy, you look like hammered shit."

Sam yawned again. "Yeah, well, it was a hell of a drive," he said, shuddering at the memory. When he'd realized that something was seriously off with Dean, he'd bundled them into the car and headed for Bobby's yard, driving through the night. And what a trip it had been.

Dean had been fairly easy to manoeuvre into the passenger side, but then once the car had started to move, he'd started to jump up and down, going "Arf!" excitedly. Apparently, riding in the car was something he really enjoyed. When he wasn't bounding in his seat, he was scrabbling over the bench seat into the back, where he bounced from one side of the car to the other, before scrambling back into the front and trying to crawl into Sam's lap – two big sloppy kisses and a foot in the groin later, Sam had barked "Dean! Enough!" at him. Dean had subsided for all of three minutes, sitting in shotgun gazing adoringly at his brother, before starting the whole performance again.

After several repeats of this routine, Sam had been considering the merits of putting Dean in the trunk when his brother had suddenly calmed down, curled up in the front seat with his head on Sam's lap and sighed, hugely and contentedly, before going to sleep. They had travelled like that for nearly an hour, Dean drooling copiously onto Sam's jeans, before Dean had woken up, kissed Sam sloppily, and started to bounce excitedly again.

Sam had pulled the car over, put Dean in the back seat, and managed to tether him more or less in place with a piece of rope run through a belt loop. Once he'd realized he couldn't bounce around any more, Dean had humphed loudly, and gone back to sleep. Sam had just breathed a sigh of relief when a truly appalling smell had wafted over from the back seat. He glanced in the mirror – Dean was sound asleep on his back, arms and legs scrabbling in the air, making gentle "arf" noises.

Sam pulled over again, and rolled one of the rear windows down a little. When Dean had woken up again, he had pressed his face to the window, nose as far out as he could get it, with an expression of sheer joy on his face, making happy panting noises to himself. And so the trip had passed, with Dean bouncing, slobbering, napping and farting until they reached Bobby's place in the wee small hours.

"So, what do I do now?" asked Sam plaintively, watching his brother chase rabbits (actual rabbits, or Playboy bunnies? Sam wondered idly) in his sleep.

"Right now, son, you head upstairs and get some shut-eye," said Bobby gruffly, "And leave me to figure out how we undo this." He glanced over at Dean. "I don't hold with dogs gettin' on the furniture – if the Good Lord had intended dogs to sleep on beds, they'd be whelped wearing carpet slippers – but take him with you. You'll be able to keep an eye on him."

"Sounds like a plan," mumbled Sam, dragging himself to his feet. "Dean. Dean!" he called, "Dean, bedtime!"

Dean rolled around on the sofa until he was looking at Sam upside down, a happy grin on his face, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He rolled off the sofa, got to his feet, shook himself and followed Sam up the stairs to the room they shared.

Thankfully, it wasn't too difficult to wrangle Dean down to t-shirt and boxers, and push him onto the bed. "Go to sleep, bro," Sam told him. Dean yawned, and sprawled on top of the covers. Close enough, thought Sam, undressing and getting into his own bed. He was just dropping off when the dreadful smell drifted over to him again. He sighed, and hoped that Bobby would come up with something soon.

... oOoOo ...

_He was on a Hunt, and he'd become separated from Dean - now the ghastly monster, which looked (and smelled) like what would happen if Sesame Street had a character called Mr Happy Toxic Waste Heap, had cornered him. He'd emptied a full clip into it, with no effect; the damned thing just kept giggling at him as it oozed over him, taking his breath away with its crushing bulk and it's smell. To add insult to injury, it was demanding that he find the situation funny. "Laugh!" it demanded, glutinous strings of God-knows-what dripping from its gaping, stinking maw into his face, "Laugh! Laugh! Laugh laugh laugh laugh! LAUGH!" The smell intensified, a mixture of rotting meat and day-old beer, as the creature demanded a convincing display of hilarity. "Laugh! Laugh laugh laugh laugh! LAUGH!"_

"Yaaaaaargh!" Sam was jolted rudely out of sleep, and his nightmare, by the shaking of the bed. "Yeeeeeeergl!" He went cross-eyed trying to focus on the face that was a couple of inches above his own.

Dean hovered over him, grinning, and drooling, bouncing up and down. "Arf! Arf! Arf!" he said, beaming happily down at Sam, his efforts redoubling when Sam's eyes opened.

"Jesus, Dean!" protested Sam, gasping for air, "Will you get off?"

"ARF!" said Dean, giving Sam another blast of what could only be described as dog-breath. Sam swatted at his brother until Dean jumped from the bed, and stood, watching expectantly, as Sam staggered upright.

"Okay, I'm up, I'm up," he grumbled. He dressed quickly, then managed to wrestle Dean into a clean t-shirt, and sweatpants. The process was made complicated by Dean's constant attempts to grab the fabric in his teeth, and play tug-of-war. Sam contemplated footware, then decided that it was too complicated. "Right, let's go get something to eat."

Dean followed him downstairs to the kitchen, where Bobby was making coffee. "Was that your alarm clock I heard going off?" he asked.

"Yeah, and I can't find his snooze button," mumbled Sam glumly. Dean bounced over to Bobby, giving him an affectionate "Arf!" of greeting.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Bobby, "You been letting him eat roadkill, Sam?"

"It's just dog-breath, I think," replied Sam, watching as Dean suddenly made a beeline for the garbage. "Dean!" he snapped, "Leave that!" Dean turned back to him with a guilty expression.

"Yup, he's a dog, all right," mused Bobby. "Coffee?"

"Yeah, please," sighed Sam.

"What about him?" Bobby jerked a thumb in the direction of Dean, who was trying to sidle towards the garbage again.

"Are you kidding? He's got ants in his pants already! I should be force-feeding him camomile tea!" said Sam, exasperated. "What am I going to feed him?"

Bobby looked thoughtful. "Well, the body is human, so something human but simple. He sure as hell won't be able to manage cutlery. The whole opposable thumb thing is probably beyond him… DEAN!" Dean looked up guiltily from his resumed inspection of the garbage can.

Sam settled for oatmeal. Human Dean would have screamed blue murder, but once he'd pushed Dean down onto a chair and put the bowl in front of him, he was treated to the sight of his big brother diving blissfully face-first into what was probably the most nutritionally sound breakfast he'd eaten for a very long time. He and Bobby watched, in horrified fascination, as Dean licked his bowl clean, then sat up with a happy expression and a faceful of oatmeal.

"Well, that was… educational," said Bobby eventually.

"Any luck with figuring out the transformation spell?" asked Sam, wiping Dean's face with a damp dishcloth.

"Some," replied Bobby, "But the news aint good. It's high level mojo, and I read ancient Greek a lot better than I speak it. I might have to call in some help…" he broke off, and their eyes were drawn back to Dean – he was whining, and squirming in his seat.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Sam. Bobby's face took on a carefully neutral expression.

"Well, if I didn't know better, I'd say he looks like he wants to go… you know… cock his leg…"

Sam's face drained of colour. "Dear God, no," he moaned in horror.

"Why don't you just let him outside," suggested Bobby, "At least we'll find out if he's housetrained."

With a slightly queasy feeling in his stomach, Sam walked to the door, and opened it. "You wanna go out, Dean?" he asked with forced cheerfulness. Dean bolted up, knocking his chair over behind him, and loped outside, heading for the nearest tree. Sam followed at a discreet distance.

Dean sniffed carefully around the tree, finding the best spot to leave his mark. To Sam's relief, Dean's human body seemed to retain the muscle memory of getting clothing out of the way first (_note to self: stick with elastic waistbands_). Having claimed that particular tree for his territory, Dean loped back towards Sam, eyes sparkling and tongue lolling.

"Okay, back inside," said Sam, heading back towards the door. Dean started to follow him, then suddenly stopped, and peered intently in the direction of a car body in the yard.

"Dean? Dean!" called Sam, as his brother ignored him, scenting the air. There was a brief flash of movement under one of the cars.

"ARF!" shouted Dean, as he took off at a full run in the direction of the car, dodging rapidly between the wrecks.

"Dean!" shouted Sam again chasing after his brother, watching with disbelief at how quickly Dean made his way among the cars, deeper into the yard. He soon lost sight of his brother, and had to follow the excited "Arf!" noises. However, they rapidly faded out of hearing, and Sam was left looking into the maze of car bodies.

"Dean! Deeeeeeean!" he called anxiously, running up and down the rows, until he finally spotted a pair of bare feet sticking out from under a rusting chassis. With relief, he heard a muffled "Arf!". Sam went down on hands and knees.

"We gotta work on getting you to come when you're called… oh, man…" Dean gave him another muffled, but decidedly cheerful "Arf!" in reply. Sam sighed, and pulled out his phone.

"Bobby? Yeah, he wanted to pee… yeah, we're out in the yard… not far… look, I don't want to leave him here - could you bring a shovel? I think he's stuck in a rabbit hole…"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Sam Gets In Touch With The Alpha Within, And Dean Ignores Him

"Full o' beans, aint he?" smiled Bobby, as they watched Dean sniff around various car bodies. Once freed from the rabbit hole, he'd given them a happy and completely unrepentant "Arf!" and begun exploring, pausing every so often to 'mark' a new addition to his territory.

"He never has been happy sitting still for too long," sighed Sam, as Dean paused to growl suspiciously at a particularly threatening looking hubcap. "Come on, Dean, inside." Dean's head came up, and he beamed at Sam. His shirt was covered in dirt, and his hair was full of bits of grass. He appeared to be ludicrously happy about this state of affairs.

When they got back to the house, Sam paused at the door, and grabbed Dean by the scruff of his shirt. "Hang on, bro," he said, "You look like a walking compost pile." He started to pick pieces of twig and grass (and what looked suspiciously like rabbit pellets) out of Dean's hair.

Dean didn't seem to mind; in fact, he seemed to enjoy the attention. "Naaaaah," he said, smiling and leaning against his brother, his eyes half-closing as Sam ran fingers through his hair.

"For someone who doesn't do chick-flick moments, you're coming perilously close," observed Sam tartly.

….oOoOo….

Feeling out of his depth, Sam did what he always did when he needed information: Laptop Dancing. When he found a site called 'Problem Pup 2 Perfect Pooch', he scanned the FAQ page for useful information.

**Problem Pup 2 Perfect Pooch FAQ**

_Q: My dog is always getting into things he shouldn't – how do I make him understand that what he's doing is naughty?_

_A: You have to make it clear that a behaviour is not acceptable – get in touch with The Alpha Within, show the dog who's boss. Use a stern voice and a sharp NO! Some negative reinforcement may help; try a water spray bottle with a few drops of essential oil in it (most dogs hate citrus scents)._

"What exactly are you totin' there?" asked Bobby. Sam brandished his spray bottle.

"This is my negative reinforcement," replied Sam, "It's just water, with some lavender oil in it. Dean hates it with a passion - I tried to get him to use this wheat bag on his trick shoulder once when it was aching – it had lavender in it, and he said I was trying to make him smell like an old lady." He turned to where Dean was sidling up to the garbage again. "I figure if it will keep him out if stuff, it's worth a try… Dean, NO!" _squirt_

"Snrf!" said Dean, glaring at Sam with an affronted expression.

"Well, good luck with that, Dr Pavlov," said Bobby dubiously, "I'll be in the study."

Sam tried to make some headway on a promising paragraph in one of Bobby's books, but it seemed that every five minutes, he was having to reinforce negatively.

Dean was just fascinated by the garbage. "Dean, NO!" _squirt_

Really, really fascinated by the garbage. "I said, NO!"_ squirt_

Dean wanted to lick dirty plates on the sink. "Dean, NO!" _squirt_

Then there was suspicious silence, in which Sam found him chewing on the leg of the table. "Dean! NO!" _squirt_

Back into the garbage. "Dean, NO!" _squirt_

The laundry hamper also proved irresistible. "Dude, gross! NO!" _squirt_

Another suspicious silence; Dean was sitting on the floor, in a most interesting contortion, trying to lick his own…

"AAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE JESUSCHRISTDEAN NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" _... squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt_

"That's a real authoritative shriek you've got happening there," observed Bobby, wandering into the kitchen for coffee, sniffing. "It smells like a Georgia brothel in here."

"How do you know what a Georgia brothel smells like anyway," muttered Sam distractedly, "I can't take my eyes off him or he's into something… Dean!" There was a noise that sounded suspiciously like someone trying to sneak noiselessly up the stairs. "Dean?" called Sam, "Are you upstairs?"

There was a galumphing sound as Dean thundered down the stairs and tore past with one of Sam's shirts in his mouth.

"Hey! Come back here with that!" yelled Sam, giving chase. Dean paused, and took off again along the hallway.

"Dean! You get your transformed ass back here RIGHT NOW!" demanded Sam.

"Armf!"

"I'm gonna squirt you 'til you drown!"

"Armf!"

Bobby slouched in the doorway, watching as the Winchesters did another lap of the house.

"DEEEEEEEAN!"

"Armf!"

Sam's longer legs caught up with Dean, and he crash-tackled him.

"Give me my frigging shirt, jerk!" he demanded, grabbing at the shirt and tugging.

"Armf! Armf! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," went Dean, pulling in the opposite direction.

Bobby sighed, and stepped in to grab Dean by the scruff of his shirt. He frowned, growling,

"Dean, drop it!"

"Arf!' said Dean, letting go of the shirt and beaming at Bobby, waiting for him to join in the wonderful game.

"Oh, he's slobbered all over it…" Sam muttered. "I can't get anything done like this," he said to Bobby, "He won't sit still!" He scowled at his brother – he was going to have to invent a whole new bitchface for this.

"Well, if you don't want him finding his own entertainment, you'll have to give him something he is allowed to play with," answered Bobby, batting away Dean's attempts at body-slamming affection. "Why don't you go check out that pet warehouse place that opened up? I'll keep an eye on the toddler, here."

"You sure?" Sam eyed Dean warily. "He's a right pain in the neck, Bobby."

"Son, I've had dogs all my life," said Bobby, ruffling Dean's hair – Dean went "Naaaaaaaah" again, leaning against the old Hunter – "And Rumsfeld wasn't so different as a youngster. You just gotta act like you're the boss of the pack. You go on, we'll work something out, won't we, fella?"

"Arf!"

Shaking his head, Sam went to get his keys and wallet. "Okay, just… just don't give him any coffee, okay?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 Sam Encounters the Crazy Dog People And Dean Does Not Get A Studded Collar

Sam had barely walked through the door of 'Paws 4 Thought' ("Where _your_ best friend is _our_ favorite customer! ! !") when he realised that he'd made a dreadful mistake: he'd broken a Rule (incidentally, it was one of Dad's Rules of Hunting as well as Dean's Rules of Women). 'Always make sure you know what you're dealing with before you go in, and arm yourself accordingly.' He'd been so keen to get away from Dean and find something to fix the problem, he hadn't bothered to do any further research, and now…

Here he was, strayed carelessly into the territory of The Dog Lovers, without even a bottle of holy water on him.

A pack of them hovered just inside the door, intense expressions on their faces - and when they saw him, they began to stalk their prey.

"Hi there!" said a middle-aged smiling woman, apparently the alpha of this pack, "Can I help you?" Three other young women watched him with sparkling eyes, and sparkling teeth.

"Er, I hope so," stumbled Sam. "I've, er, I've kind of, just adopted this dog, and…"

Foolishly, he had mentioned the magic words 'adopted' and 'dog' in the same sentence. This turned out to be a powerful charm: the three other women dropped what they were doing and rushed at him with startling cries of "Awwwwwwwwwww!"

"How wonderful for you!" the smiling alpha gushed. "What's he or she like?"

"Um, he's a wonderful animal, really, he's affectionate, and happy, even has a sooky side apparently… um, he's not really misbehaving, he's just being a bit, um, disruptive." These people were far too intense - Sam couldn't stop looking at their teeth. "He's getting into everything. I'm trying to get some work done, and he keeps wanting my attention every few minutes… he's just…big and boisterous. And nosy. And irritatingly cheerful."

"Aaaaaaaah," they had all chorused together, exchanging pointed looks.

"Aaaaah?" echoed Sam.

"Sounds like a typical Rottie, yes?" the alpha had pronounced. Her younger colleagues nodded knowingly, making affirmative noises.

"Er, yeah, I guess," agreed Sam, smiling desperately, having no idea what these creepy women were talking about.

"So," she continued, "Some things to keep a large, intelligent dog occupied, let's see…" two of the younger women grabbed his arms and steered him towards an entire wall covered in dog toys. Sam blinked, feeling slightly shell-shocked; he had no idea there were that many dog toys in the entire world. They peppered him with rapid-fire questions.

"Does he chase balls?"

"Does he play tug of war?"

"Does he retrieve?"

"Does he like to swim?"

"Is he a power chewer?"

"Er, really, I'd just like something for him to amuse himself with while I try to work," he said, starting to feel dizzy.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah," they'd all chorused again. Alpha woman had recommended a couple of toys, and Sam had readily agreed, if only to escape sooner.

"Is there anything else we can help you with?" she'd asked.

"We have a special on collars and harnesses this week," trilled one young sidekick.

"These are very popular for Rottweilers!" bubbled another, holding up a wide black leather collar with silver studs on it.

"Ooh, there's a matching walking harness to go with that," added the third.

A completely unwelcome mental picture of Dean wearing a studded leather collar and matching harness popped into Sam's mind, making his brain screech in protest at being required to produce such an image. "No," he said quickly, feeling his knees wobble, "We're good for collars, and, um, stuff. Definitely don't need any collars. With studs. Oh, God…" his stomach did a somersault with half-twist.

"How's his diet?" the smiling alpha suddenly demanded.

"Oh, he's good," said Sam, trying not to gibber, but that mental picture had rattled him terribly, "He eats what's put in front of him, no problem there, although he does have a bit of a problem with dog-breath, which isn't surprising, since he's a dog, ha ha, it's kinda stinky though, and he also has a tendency to, um, you know… the other end… when he sleeps… it's pretty bad…"

"Aaaaaaaaah," they did their creepy chorusing and nodding thing again.

Alpha female had plucked two packets from the shelf behind them. "These biscuits can help keep his teeth clean, which will help with the dog-breath, and they have charcoal and chlorophyll in them, so they'll help with the other problem as well. And these are called bull chews – good for teeth cleaning, and one will keep him occupied for ages. Dogs just love them."

"Sounds perfect," squeaked Sam, grinning desperately back at them.

"Good luck with your new best friend," tweeted one of the young ones, bagging his purchases for him, "Next time you drop in, bring him with you!"

"We can get him to try on some collars!" giggled another one.

Sam giggled right along with her. "You know," he said, feeling an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, "I think he'd really, really, like that."

….oOoOo….

When he got back to the yard, Bobby was dishing up lunch. Sam watched in amazement as Dean happily face-planted into a plate of pasta and sauce.

"But… it's full of vegetables…" he breathed incredulously.

"Don't seem to worry garbage guts here none," grinned Bobby. Dean lifted his head to offer Sam a cheerful "Arf!" before returning to demolishing his lunch.

"So, how did it go?" asked Bobby later, as Dean sniffed inquisitively at the bag Sam had brought in. Sam shuddered involuntarily.

"I suppose silver ammo would do it, but I'd have to take some back-up as well," he mused to himself, "Well, there's this thing," he continued, fishing out a furry toy with four long tails and floppy ears, "I think it's supposed to be a rabbit. With tentacles. A rabbit-squid. An octo-rabbit. If it doesn't go 'woof' I think those people are a bit hazy about the anatomy." he waved it in front of Dean, who sniffed at it curiously, then sank his teeth into it. It made a squeaking noise. Dean's eyes widened in delight, and he bit down on it again.

"Armf!" he declared, running a couple of laps of the room before heading for the sofa, chewing contentedly at his new toy.

"Well, that one's a hit," remarked Bobby. "What else?"

"I got this treat ball," said Sam, "You're meant to put kibble in it, but since this is Dean, I figured… " he brought out a bag of peanut M&Ms. Bobby chortled. "There's also these chlorophyll and charcoal biscuit things, which should improve the, er, aroma problem at each end, and these things called bull chews." When Sam pulled one from the bag, Dean dropped his octo-rabbit, and hurried back over. "They smell pretty strong, but…" Dean eyed the chew intently. "You want one now, bro?" Sam offered it to him, and Dean took it in his teeth, loping back to the sofa where he settled, gnawing vigorously and making contented little noises. "The sales woman said that one of these would keep him occupied for ages… what?" Sam noticed that Bobby was laughing.

"Oh yeah, dogs love bull chews all right. You know what they are, right?"

"Some sort of beef jerky, I guess," said Sam, "Bobby, is something wrong?"

"Wrong? No, no, nothing wrong," said Bobby innocently. Sam's eyes narrowed.

"Bobby, what?"

"Nothing," repeated the old Hunter. Sam gave him a confused look, but Bobby wouldn't say any more.

They went back to the books; the toy and the chew did indeed keep Dean occupied until he went to sleep again, twitching gently and making gentle "Arf' noises.

"He seems to be sleeping a lot," remarked Sam, "Is that normal?"

"For a dog, yeah," replied Bobby. "At least he seems to be having happy dreams. Wonder what he's chasin'?" He sniffed, and pulled a face. "Phew, let's hope the charcoal biscuits are just as effective as the distractions."

With Dean out of the way, they were able to make some progress with deciphering the spell. Sam took a moment to type a query into his laptop.

Later that evening, he had his answer.

_**From:**__ Problem Pup 2 Perfect Pooch_

_**To:**__ Dog'sdoormat_

_Dear Dog'sdoormat,_

_The staff at the pet shop are right, bull chews are good for your pooch's teeth, and will help with his breath. They are actually the dried penises of steers sent to slaughter – sounds dreadful to us, but dogs do love them! Try thinking of them as 'beef jerky' rather than dwelling too much on where they come from._

_Smooches to the pooches, the team at PP2PP_

"Well, I'm ready for some dinner," announced Bobby, standing and stretching, "I got some steak in the refrigerator – I'm betting he'll like it."

Sam looked over to the sofa, where Dean was gnawing contentedly on his bull chew again. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh out loud, or retch.

"Er, thanks Bobby," he said uncertainly, "But for some reason, I'm not really hungry…"

* * *

... and the people who work in those pet warehouses are really that creepy. Srsly. If you work in a pet warehouse, then I am just backing away slowly, smiling and nodding, not breaking eye contact...

I can thoroughly recommend an octo-rabbit Wubba toy to keep a dog occupied, though - if you're lucky, they'll test the squeaker to destruction early on in the piece.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 Sam Has Another Nightmare And Dean Discovers Dog Nirvana

_The demons were massing outside the cruddy motel room they were staying in. Sam finished salting the door and windows, and twitched aside the stained curtain: at least two dozen of them, black eyes glittering in anticipation._

"_Dean!" He called. "Dean! There's at least twenty of them out there, and… Dean?" His brother was still in the bathroom. The door was ajar; Sam pushed on it._

_Dean stood in front of the mirror, lips pursed, hands on hips, a tangle of dog accessories on the chipped vanity in front of him. "Sam," he rumbled angrily, "I can't fight demons now – I don't have a thing to wear!" He held up (oh God) a black leather studded collar to his neck (no oh God no), and studied his reflection. "No, too clichéd. Ah, but this…" he picked out a scarlet collar set with red rhinestones, "This I can work with. Sets off my eyes, don't you think?" He beamed happily in the mirror. "Just let me get this, and we'll get ganking." His eyes darted around the bathroom. "Have you seen my harness, the one with the studs on it?"_

"_YAAAAAARGH!" screamed Sam, snatching the collar away from Dean, "I don't care about fucking accessories! There are DEMONS out there about to try to kill us!"_

"_You give that back!" shouted Dean, grabbing the other end of the collar, starting a tug of war. "Bitch!"_

"_Jerk!"_

"_Bitch"_

"_Jerk!"_

"AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Sam jerked awake and sat up, shuddering, as the nightmare receded. Dean was still blissfully snoring and farting on the other bed, curled protectively around his fluffy toy. It's not fair, thought Sam, the better he sleeps, the worse my nightmares get…

Once again, Dean was full of energy after breakfast, and bounded from Sam to Bobby and back again, trying to engage someone in a tug-of-war with octo-rabbit.

"Do something with your brother, will you?" growled Bobby. He was on the phone, getting some advice on his Ancient Greek pronunciation and phrasing. "If I don't get this exactly right, we may end up turning him into something else entirely, possibly an inanimate object."

"Which doesn't sound so bad right about now," grumbled Sam, fending off his brother.

"Well, take him for a walk, then," suggested Bobby, "Just get him out of here."

Sam managed to get a piece of rope tied around Dean's waist, which would hopefully stop him from running off after any more rabbits, and they set out.

It was more of a saunter than a walk; Dean had to stop to sniff at every tree, every post and every interesting-looking rock, and 'marked' at least half of them. Still, it was a nice day, and Sam eventually smiled to see his brother looking so happy.

"You really don't mind being a dog that much, do ya?" he said, scruffing a hand through Dean's hair.

"Naaaaaaaaaaah," said Dean, before trotting ahead to sniff another tree.

Sam was just starting to enjoy strolling in the sunshine when disaster struck: Dean stopped, flared his nostrils, and let out a joyous "Arf!" before taking off at full speed, yanking the rope out of Sam's hand and pulling Sam right off his feet.

"Oof! Dean!" called Sam, scrambling up and setting off in hot pursuit.

Dean didn't go far: on the side of the track, he'd found a dead… something. Rabbit? Bird? Skunk? It was hard to tell, but it STUNK. To Sam's horror, Dean was lying on the ground, squirming around in the dead something, a look of sheer bliss on his face. Sam felt his breakfast try to come back up.

"Dean!" he coughed, determined not to puke in case his brother wanted to roll in that too, "Dean! STOP IT!"

"Na-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h", went Dean, writhing in ecstasy. Finally, he lay still, grinning up at Sam, looking positively post-coital.

"Oh, fuck me, Dean, what the hell? That's disgusting!" raged Sam, holding his nose and using the rope to yank Dean to his feet. "Ugh! God, I'm gonna salt and burn you! Come on!" He pulled out his phone as they headed back to the house. "Bobby? Yeah, we've got a problem… "

….oOoOo….

Sam marched, grim-faced, up the stairs. A mournful howling started in the laundry, where Dean had been shut in. Bobby heard the bath running, but tuned the noise out as he double-checked a phrasing; he'd long since learned to ignore the noise associated with a visit from the Winchesters.

Five minutes later, Sam returned, and frog-marched a whimpering Dean by the scruff of his shirt up the stairs. Bobby sympathised – no dog he'd ever owned had liked a bath.

There was some stifled yelping, then silence for a few minutes, then a series of noises.

"Yipe!"

"Shut up, you disgusting thing!" _Splash. Thump._

"Arf!"

"DEAN!" _Slosh. Crash._

"Arf!"

"_DEAN!_"

Then more silence. Then…

"ARF!"

"AAAAH FUCK!" _Splosh_.

_Thump thump thump thump thump… _

Bobby didn't bat an eyelid. He'd seen this before.

…_thump thump thump thump thump…_

Admittedly, the last time a naked Winchester brother escaped from the bath to go running down the stairs, trailing soapsuds, hit the door at high speed and disappear into the yard, it had been Sam, and he'd only been three years old…

"_COME BACK HERE YOU FILTHY ASSHOLE!"_

… and the irate brother in enraged pursuit had been Dean…

"Oh, shit! SHIT! FUCK!"

Bobby glanced out the window as he poured himself another coffee. Dean had managed to find a particularly dusty spot beside a derelict truck, and had rolled nearly all of himself in it before Sam caught him.

He looked like a cocoa-dusted chocolate truffle.

"Yipe!"

The door banged open. A mournful-looking Dean was marched, once more, up the stairs.

It really was amazing, thought Bobby idly, just how scary Sam could look when he was angry…

….oOoOo….

"How we doin', Bobby?" asked Sam, glaring at the sofa. A freshly scrubbed and deodorised Dean sprawled there, looking contrite, gnawing on a bull chew and cuddling his octo-rabbit; Sam had finally found The Alpha Within, and it had not been pretty.

"I think we're just about good to go," replied Bobby, waving his notes, "Although it's going to be a bit more complicated than a simple reversal, if there is such a thing…"

"Exactly how much more complicated?" queried Sam suspiciously, darting a Special Edition Alpha Within Bitchface™ (Sit! Stay! Or Else It's The Squirt Bottle For You!) at Dean.

"Well, the original transformation didn't go to completion," explained Bobby, I'm pretty sure we can't just, metaphorically, pull the loose end, and unravel it. We have to finish it, and then undo the whole thing."

"You mean…"

"Yup," sighed Bobby, "We gotta turn him all the way into a dog first, then do the reversal."

"Shit."

"RIght with you there, son. At least this way, he'll be one or t'other, not stuck in between."

"Okay. What do we need?"

Bobby handed a piece of paper to Sam. "Not a lot – I've got most of it here. Specifically, we need something belonging to Dean the human, and something belonging to Dean the dog."

"Okay, I'm on it." Sam scanned the list as he walked over to the couch. "Hand over the mutant rabbit, bro, we need it for the mojo."

Dean obediently let go of octo-rabbit when Sam took it, but his eyes were so sad and disappointed that Sam paused, then gave it back to him.

"Okay," he relented, "You hang onto it until we need it."

"Arf!" went Dean, smiling up at his brother, tongue hanging out, before he sank his teeth into the toy, chomping contentedly. Sam grinned. Octo-rabbit was in safe hands. Or possibly paws. Whatever - it wasn't going anywhere.


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you to the reviewers who have been so encouraging through this piece of utter silliness *blush*, although I never intended to distract anyone from thesis completion (frowns at EnmityRose - back, I say, back to the word processor! Who let you off the chain?). And as for Twinchester Angel worrying about an 'unhealthy' interest, well, it's not immoral, it's not illegal, and it's not bad for your cholesterol, so you could do a lot worse. I'm glad it's given a few people a giggle. Whether I am myself in fact a Crazy Dog Person remains open to interpretation (I Lost A Bet, my dog also had a taste for plaster as a pup - not enough calcium in the diet? Apparently then, she had a flowerpot deficiency as well).

Well, onwards with the last chapter - we'd better turn him back I suppose, Sam's going to run out of bitchfaces... of course Bobby knows this stuff; he had Rumsfeld, didn't he?

Sadly, I have to report that it looks like the real octo-rabbit bunnyWubba is going the way of poor Honky Duck (who had a cameo in 'Supposed To Go To Heaven'). It's lost a tentacle, it wheezes rather than squeaks, it's developed some large bald patches and complete disembowelment can't be far away.

* * *

Chapter 10: Bobby Comes Up With A Scheme To Make Money

The alternating Latin and Greek phrases started to make Sam's brain hurt; he gave up trying to follow what Bobby was saying, and concentrated on his part, which was to make sure Dean stood still in the middle of the room so he didn't get hurt when the spell kicked in. He was doing this by throwing peanut M&Ms to his brother, who was catching them in his mouth, making the occasional happy "Arf!" noise.

Just when Sam was starting to worry that they'd got something wrong, and nothing was going to happen, there was a dull flash of yellow light, and...

"Well, slap my ass and call me Shirley," said Bobby.

"Er, yeah," said Sam. He threw another peanut M&M. The large Rottweiler standing in the middle of the rug caught it, then grinned a doggy grin at them.

"Arf," it went.

Bobby cocked his head thoughtfully. "He's a magnificent animal," he said, "Good size, well-muscled, good head, deep chest… damned fine conformation. Clean lines. Strong expression, masculine. And a happy face. Judges like that look." He paused, then looked at Sam. "Y'know, if you'd be prepared to let him stand at stud for a while, you could make damned good money…"

Sam did a double-take. "Hunh?" was all that came out.

"…I mean, we'd have to see him gaiting, but I'm betting he tracks straight and economical. We know his temperament is sound. Crazy Dog People would pay several hundred dollars per service for a dog like that..."

"You can't be serious…" Sam's mouth hung open.

"…Up to a thousand, even. We could write up a pedigree for him, German bloodlines, get him x-rayed for dysplasia, and…"

"Are… are you suggesting that we leave Dean like this and put him to work as a… _a dog prostitute_?" asked Sam, horrified.

"Not a prostitute, Sam – a stud. He wouldn't be doing anything that his human self wouldn't do, except he'd be gettin' paid for it…" Bobby grinned hugely, and Sam sighed with relief, treating the old Hunter to a Custom Fitted Single Use Only 'I Am Not Prostituting My Brother To Crazy Dog People' Bitchface™. "You gotta admit, he makes a fine specimen. Bet he'd be a great Hunter, too."

"Yeah, but I don't think I could handle another bath-time like that, no matter how many legs," said Sam.

"Okay, then, get his toy, and let's lose two of those legs."

Sam took the octo-rabbit from the table they were using as an altar and gave it to the dog, who took it eagerly. "Armf!" he said, chewing on it until it squeaked.

"That's great, you just hold that thought," said Sam encouragingly, as Bobby picked up an ornate knife, and began his disorienting recitation again. A low humming sound, like the droning of a chorus of bass-baritone bees, started almost below the threshold of hearing; the dog cocked his head, and started to wag his tail. "Armf! Armf! Amrf!"

"Hold still, Dean, hold still!" yelped Sam desperately, as the dog continued to wag his tail, his whole body wriggling happily.

"Armf! Armf! Armf!"

There was another dull flash, and…

"Armph – faaaa! Faaaaaaa! Faaaaarf! Fuck! Fuck! Argh!" Dean spat out the furry toy, then coughed, "Fuck! Sam!" He looked up, eyes darting wildly from Sam, to Bobby, and back again. "Fuck! Sam! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Sure sounds like it worked perfectly," muttered Bobby.

"Dean!" said Sam, "Dean! Are you… I mean, are you… are you you?"

"Sam! Fuck!" Dean blinked twice. "Sam?"

"Yeah, it's me, bro," replied Sam, smiling with relief, "Welcome back."

"Sam," repeated Dean. "Sam. Fuck. Sam." He looked around again, taking in his surroundings. "What… what the hell… Bobby? Fuck…"

"Definitely him," decided Bobby, putting down the book.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "Dean," he began, "You've kind of… missed out on the last few days. They've been… interesting…" He looked at his brother. "How much do you remember?"

"I was shouting at you to move your shaggy ass and gank that witch," said Dean, "And then… and then I'm… here…"

"Look, you're gonna have lots of questions," said Sam, "I'll try fill you in as systematically as I can, in chronological order…"

"I only really have one question that matters, Sam," said Dean calmly.

"Yeah, it's okay, I ganked the witch…" Sam told him.

"No, that's not it…"

"The car is fine, I haven't done anything to it…"

"She, Sam, she's a she, and no, it's not about the car…"

"Ah, don't worry, I got the witch's book," explained Sam, "So nobody's going to use it…"

"No Sam," said Dean pleasantly, "I only really want to ask one question, which is: _What the fuck am I doing standing naked in Bobby's house with a fucking dog toy in my mouth?"_

He sniffed.

"And why the hell do I smell like an old lady?"

... oOoOo ...

"Rolled in it," repeated Dean over dinner, "You're saying I rolled in it."

"Rolled, wriggled and writhed in it," confirmed Sam, "Like you were having the best sex you'd ever had."

"I don't believe you," said Dean, biting into his hamburger, "You're making it up. Anyway, you'd never have been able to make me take a bath."

"Ahem," said Bobby, passing his phone to Dean. Dean's eyes bugged.

"Oh my God, you… you took a _photo_?"

"If it makes you feel any better, I've still got the one I took of your brother when he escaped from the bath," said Bobby airily, "It's around somewhere."

"Bobby, he was three years old! This is completely different!" Dean looked back at the phone. "Why do I look like a cinnamon-dusted funnel cake?"

"Because you're a filthy and disgusting creature, on two legs or four," answered Sam, pushing a handful of paper napkins at Dean. "Wipe your face, and don't talk with your mouth full."

"You had no justification for lavenderizing me," grumbled Dean resentfully.

"Dude, you didn't have to smell yourself. It could've been worse: Bobby was making plans to put you to stud, make you pay your way…" Dean's eyes bugged again.

"Joke," said Bobby. "Mostly."

"You are a sick old perv," seethed Dean, "and Sam has the gall to call me a filthy and disgusting creature…"

"You watch your mouth, boy," said Bobby evenly.

"Ha! Says he who takes photos of naked men when they're… suffering from temporary species confusion! Pot calling kettle, you twisted old fart!"

"Dean…" rumbled Bobby warningly.

"… When you're not preparing to pimp my doggy ass for ill-gotten gains, I'd say that's pretty disgusting, you deviant old…"

_squirt_

"Sonofabitch!" spluttered Dean, spitting out scented water, "What the fuck was that?"

"Negative reinforcement," said Bobby, brandishing the spray bottle. "When I tell you to watch your mouth in my house, you do it, son, or I'll give your negative a reinforcing it won't forget in a hurry."

Sam laughed quietly.

Bobby gave him a squirt too, on general principles.

"Seein' as the two of you smell so nice, ladies, you can both be mother, and clean up in here before bed," he announced.

"Yes, Bobby," they chorused, shooting each other looks that said _this is All Your Fault._

Bobby smiled contentedly, and headed upstairs.

Really, it was all just a matter of being in touch with The Alpha Within.

... oOoOo ...

Another poltergeist terrorising another family, another road trip for the Winchesters. Dean didn't seem to be suffering any ill effects from his dog days, except…

"What are you eating?" asked Sam, wrinkling his nose.

"Jerky," replied Dean, brandishing one of the leftover bull chews, "I think I've developed a taste for this stuff. Hey, you okay, bro?"

"I'm fine," spluttered Sam, recovering from his apparent coughing fit, "Just something in my throat. Um, you do know what they are, right?"

"Yeah, I know, they're dog food," said Dean, "But they're just dried cow, aren't they? They taste good. And if they clean my teeth, well, think how much I'll save on toothpaste!" He smiled winningly at Sam, and stuck the chew back in his mouth.

"You might want to pop a TicTac before you get too close to a chick, is all I'm saying," said Sam, stifling a laugh. "Still, they can't be any worse for you than the usual junk you eat, can they?"

"Exactly," agreed Dean. "What?"

Sam smiled at him. "Nothing," he said, "Enjoy your health food." Sooner or later, he thought he was going to have to tell his brother exactly what bull chews were. He'd let him eat one, then tell him tonight.

Or maybe tomorrow.

Defintely by the end of the week.

**THE END**


End file.
